Stay Strong
by McFierce
Summary: ONE SHOT. Is Sherlock really back? John can't believe it, either.


**I do not own Sherlock. Moffat, Gatiss, Doyle, and BBC do.**

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Lungs fill with the scent of a smoky, blue scarf. Such a superficial thing – only worn to stroke an ego that needs not stroking. Wrapped snuggly around an angular neck, it catches John's eyes.

At first, he can't believe it. He won't believe it. An apparition? Someone masquerading around as the famous, but dead, consulting detective? No, that's definitely him, and he's surely _not_ dead.

John tightens his hold on his newspaper. Obituaries crumble under his fingers. Who's to be sure they're not all lies? Black and white pictures of people who want to drop from the face of the earth for two years and then show up in your living room. John has a clipping of Sherlock's obituary neatly tucked in a box among other things. Of course it features a black mop of hair sticking out from under a deerstalker hat. No one else quite understood how much Sherlock detested that picture.

Now they could.

Shallow breaths felt like gasps as John clung his gaze to the man standing in the doorway, afraid he might lose him again if he so much as blinks.

Sherlock's face seems so much older. Remnants of fake aliases trace his laugh lines. Months of sleepless nights darken the skin above his cheeks. Hiding from the world dulls the glint in his eyes. It's no mistake this is the man in that picture, the man that jumped off of a hospital building two years ago.

"Did you pick up milk on your way here?"

Sherlock's face twists with surprise. "What?"

"You know we never have any, so you could have been considerate and actually bought a gallon yourself for once." Without even looking at it, John folds up the newspaper – the obituaries now buried.

"John-"

"No, no, it's fine. I guess I'll just have to run to the store myself." He discards the sloppy, greyscale square to set on the table next to him, but he doesn't move. He can't move.

"John." Sherlock steps closer. The smell of smoke is now stronger, filling up the room with its stench. Had he went back to smoking? What, two... three packs a day? As a doctor and a friend, this made John tighten his jaw, gritting his teeth.

"John, are you okay?" Sherlock asks with an uncharacteristically sincere tone. He draws his lips in a thin line and stands as still as a statue.

_Don't blink. _

"Okay? Ya, I'm okay. Perfectly fine. Why wouldn't I be okay?" His movements become fidgety, even when his hands find their way into his lap.

"John."

"You only disappear for what? Two years? No big deal."

"John.."

"And, in that two years, no letters? No texts? Oh, that's right, it's because you were _dead_, Sherlock. At least I thought you were, and then you waltz back in here like you were never even gone." He's not sure when it happened, but he's now standing – standing with clenched fists at his side.

Aside from John breathing heavily, the room is silent. The nebulous sound of Londoners chattering under their window is blocked out by the louder sound of a heartbeat in both of the men's ears. The atmosphere does a quick change of genre, from drama to western as they stare at each other in a show down, waiting for the other to make the first move.

John doesn't even hesitate before making the first, clumsy swing. His legs want no part in this and refuse to cooperate, letting Sherlock step aside without being touched.

Sherlock forfeits his turn, silently asking John to quit. To accept him back in his life. To forgive him.

But John doesn't want to give up, but he also doesn't want to hurt the man who made his life hell. He gives the taller man one good punch to the shoulder and then one to his chest, using less and less force each time until he's patting Sherlock's collarbone. His hands cease to move. They rest on that coat with the up-turned collar that he's dearly missed.

The smell of the scarf invades all his senses, and for a moment, he doesn't feel like he's there.

"John," Sherlock says again.

"How could you leave me like that? Do you have any idea… any idea what you've done?" Tears well up in his eyes, and all he can see are the blurry, dull colors of Sherlock.

The other man says nothing but places a hand on the doctor's shoulder, squeezing slightly. He's real. He's there. Do not worry, John Watson.

But John continues to cry, tears rolling down his cheeks and onto that scarf as he buries his face in it. Salt. Tabacco smoke. Tastes like heaven.

"John?"

The hand on his shoulder tightens, shaking him a little.

"John? …Lestrade, come look at this."

The sandy haired detective strolls back over to the man beckoning him. His face is worn with worry. He glances from a distressed, but recovering, Mrs. Hudson to John Watson, lying unconscious on the floor.

The officer squatting by John releases the doctor's shoulder. The cigarette in his mouth dangles dangerously low, the ashes adding up at the end threatening to fall on his polished, black shoes. He points a stubby finger at the vulnerable Dr. Watson. "He's cryin'."

Squatting next to the officer, Greg Lestrade makes a face of disgust. "Could you put that out?" He rolls his eyes as the other scrambles to find a surface to rub out his stick of nicotine on. Turning his focus back on John, he sighs. "Working so hard you didn't see that box on the floor, eh? You even managed to give yourself a concussion.. What am I going to do with you?" He tsk's the other quietly, picking up the box in question.

A small slip of paper floats out of the box, landing with its contents face up. The greyscale face of Sherlock in his infamous deerstalker hat stares back at him. Lestrade sighs and gives John a sympathetic look. "The paramedics should be here soon," he swallows before adding, "stay strong, John."


End file.
